Dad, please listen to me,” said the woman, now of age, as she sat next to the old man. She took his hand, but Vladimir Pavlovich pulled it toward himself. “You can barely walk—let’s finally resolve this matter.”
The old man, like a child, hid his hands behind his back. He silently looked at his daughter and then, without saying another word, shook his head in refusal.
“See, you’re standing your ground again! And if something should happen to you, then what?” Her tone grew insistent.
“Nothing will happen,” the old man muttered so softly as he gazed out the window at the old maple whose branches swayed in the wind.
“Is it too hard for you to come with me to the notary and get everything sorted?”
Galina Vladimirovna had already tried several times to start a conversation with her father about transferring the apartment into her name, but he stubbornly refused. It was a good apartment—three rooms, in the center of the city, in a brick building with high ceilings and large windows. For many, this house was a prized possession. After his wife died, he flatly refused to sell the apartment, never registering anyone there or allowing anyone to live with him. Only when Galina’s son grew up did he allow Vadim to live with him. The boy was smart; he remembered how his grandfather used to take him for walks, drop him off at kindergarten, and take him to various clubs. But as the boy grew into a man, last year he got married and, together with his wife Yana, now lived in the adjacent room.
In the spacious living room stood old furniture, preserving memories of happier days. Heavy velvet curtains muted the daylight, creating a cozy half-light. Faded photographs hung on the walls, silently guarding the family’s history.
Having achieved nothing from her father, Galina Vladimirovna sighed deeply and left his room.
There was nothing more to do in that house, so after saying goodbye to her son and embracing her daughter-in-law Yana, she departed.
For a while, Vladimir Pavlovich sat in a stupor, as if asleep. Then he jerked, got up, dressed slowly, and headed for the door.
“Grandpa, where are you going?” a grandson’s voice called from the hall.
The old man wanted to be alone. Yes, he had his own room where he could lock himself in, but he longed to get some fresh air, to stroll through the park where he used to walk with his wife.
The old man stepped into the corridor and began looking for his shoes. He even peeked into a small closet, even got down on his knees—just in case his eyesight was failing—but his shoe was nowhere to be found.
“Grandpa, grandpa!” the grandson immediately appeared. “Stop fooling around, go to your room and rest.”
“All I’m doing is resting,” muttered Vladimir Pavlovich.
“No, no,” Vadim insisted again. “Hurry back to your room. If you need something, let me know—I’m going to town tomorrow. Well, what do you need me to buy?” the grandson asked, displeased.
“Nothing,” the old man mumbled. Realizing his shoe was missing, he cursed under his breath, got up, turned around, and went back to his room.
“I’ve had enough!” the daughter-in-law exclaimed in indignation. “I’m sick and tired of all this!” she repeated, looking disdainfully at the old man’s back as he shut the door to his room.
“Calm down,” Vadim said as he approached her and tried to embrace his wife, but she snorted and went into the kitchen.
“I’m fed up with it all—I want to live properly!”
“What isn’t alright? You’ve got a house, and grandpa isn’t bothering you.”
“He is!” Yana immediately declared.
“He’s quiet.”
“He is a nuisance!” the woman repeated and began banging dishes.
When Galina Vladimirovna, her mother-in-law, had suggested moving in with grandpa, she had been pleased: it was a good way to save money—no rent, a central location, shops, and entertainment centers nearby. But the old man irritated her. Yes, he was quiet, didn’t watch TV, and didn’t pester with questions, yet his very presence drove her mad.
A couple of days later, Galina Vladimirovna came to visit her son again. He clearly didn’t like it, but what could he do—a mother always commands.
Olya, her sister-in-law, came to see Yana. They sat in the hall and chattered about something, but as soon as the mother-in-law appeared, the girls stood up and, like mice, quickly hid in a bedroom.
A few minutes later, the door opened, and the old man, shuffling his feet, emerged.
“Go back!” Galina Vladimirovna ordered him. “I’ll bring you something to eat right away.”
The old man raised his head and looked at the empty hall. He had even forgotten the last time he sat on the couch watching TV.
“Go, go!” she demanded in an authoritative voice, insisting that her father return to his room.
The old man turned and went back.
Clearly dissatisfied, Galina Vladimirovna went to the kitchen, placed a pot on the stove, took a tray, put some bread on it, a spoon, and poured soup into a bowl. A few minutes later, she brought it to his room.
“Eat carefully,” she said to him as if he were a small child.
The next day, Ekaterina Andreevna, the mother-in-law—or rather, the mother of the daughter-in-law—visited. Vladimir Pavlovich had worked all his life in an office full of people, knowing everyone by name, and was used to greeting people. So, out of habit, he got up and went out to greet Ekaterina Andreevna. But then his daughter-in-law appeared and, with a tone as disapproving as her husband’s, demanded that the old man return to his room. Confused, Vladimir Pavlovich looked at Ekaterina Andreevna; she clearly regarded him with disdain.
“Come on, go back to your room,” Yana said as she approached him, turned him around, and pushed him toward the door. Shuffling his feet, Vladimir Pavlovich went back.
“Is he still alive?” the mother-in-law whispered.
“Alive,” Yana replied in an unmistakably displeased tone.
From the bedroom came Vadim, who never liked his mother-in-law; she was always gloomy. It was better that she didn’t interfere in their affairs. Still, it would have been preferable if she didn’t come at all.
“I’m so fed up with all this!” Yana repeated like a broken record.
“Why don’t you rent an apartment for yourself?” a sister-in-law curiously asked Vadim.
“My mother said to live here,” Vadim sighed heavily, as if it were some kind of burden to live in a three-room apartment.
“Is he sick? Can’t he take care of himself?” Olya inquired of her sister.
“Maybe,” she answered, and after a pause added, “the thing is, he really can.”
Half an hour later, the mother-in-law was getting ready; she hugged her daughter and, in a tone like that of a mentor, said, “Hang in there!” Surely, Ekaterina Andreevna meant the old man. “It’s much better than renting an apartment. It’s free here, and you’re not far from your studies.”
“Alright, mom, it’s fine.”
“Don’t worry,” the son-in-law said as he entered the corridor. The mother-in-law looked at him but said nothing; she kissed her daughter’s cheek and left.
Vladimir Pavlovich was tired of sitting in his room. It had become like a prison to him. He had tried to go out for a walk so many times, but it seemed the grandson had either hidden or thrown away his shoes. In his room, he had everything he needed—that was the most important thing. On the wall hung photos for memory, including one of his beloved wife, who had long since left this world. From their happy marriage, only two daughters remained—Vera and Galina.
Vera was the elder; as soon as she got married, she immediately moved to another city. She called every week, and he could talk with her for hours. Galina also visited at least once a month, asking how he was, bringing heaps of medicine, and instructing Vadim to make sure her grandfather took his medications.
Yes, his legs were weak; he had had surgeries; his back and lower back ached. His eyes still saw well, his hearing was fine, and his mind was still functioning. He feared only one thing—that one fine day he might begin to forget—dementia. He dreaded that diagnosis. His friend, whom he had met in the army and later worked with for thirty years, was already losing his memory. He met him in the hospital, and the friend’s daughter, who accompanied him, said he no longer recognized anyone. So every morning, Vladimir Pavlovich would get up, go to a photograph, and reminisce—hoping to delay that terrible disease.
The next day, after Vadim and Yana had left, the old man came out of his room. Out of habit, he put on his jacket, even fastened his tie, stepped into the corridor, and began looking for his shoes.
“Damn it, you’re unbelievable!” Vladimir Pavlovich cursed.
His shoe was gone, but he managed to find his grandson’s sneakers. With difficulty, he put them on, approached the door, turned the latch, and pulled the door open—but it wouldn’t budge.
“They’ve locked it,” the old man grumbled. He searched for his keys, but they were nowhere to be found.
He had no choice but to put the sneakers back and return to his room.
It seemed that Galina did care about him, and the grandson behaved quite normally. The daughter-in-law could be ignored—men complain, all women do, he thought. It was good that he was still alive, but he understood it wouldn’t last long.
The old man went to his bed, lifted a pillow, and took out his phone. He sat for a long while, thinking and remembering his daughter Galina, who had demanded for the hundredth time that the apartment be transferred into her name. His relationship with his grandson had soured—he had turned from a kind little boy into a vicious dog. Perhaps he’d last another six months, at most a year. They were poisoning him with medications or some other nasty substance. The old man looked at his trembling fingers—this had never happened before. Activating his phone, he slowly found his granddaughter Nadya in the contacts list. Knowing how to use the touchscreen, he carefully typed an SMS saying “save me” and sent it to her.
In the evening, Vladimir Pavlovich sat in the kitchen. He loved it and was glad when he bought the cabinets and hung them himself. Now, sitting in silence, he sipped his tea. The front door slammed, and male voices were heard—one belonging to the grandson and the other to Anton, the son-in-law.
Vadim entered the kitchen, saw his grandfather, and immediately cursed:
“Get back to your room!” he ordered the old man.
Vladimir Pavlovich’s hands began to tremble.
“Come on, come on!” the grandson barked, lifting the old man and shoving him from behind. “Stay in your hole!”
Vladimir Pavlovich no longer had the strength. Shuffling his feet, he returned to his room, closed the door, and moved the nightstand aside.
Anton, the husband of the sister-in-law, entered the kitchen. He snickered and looked at the door where the old man had disappeared.
“Maybe it’s time for him?” he said, grabbing his own neck as if to suggest that perhaps Vladimir Pavlovich should already be heading for the other side.
Vadim only snorted and, dismissing him with a wave, took a pot from the refrigerator.
All night, music could be heard in the hall, along with Yana and Olya’s laughter, and Vadim and Anton’s jokes. The old man never fell asleep; he was used to silence, but that was now a thing of the past. By early morning, the sister-in-law and the son-in-law had left. Vladimir Pavlovich’s phone softly chimed; the old man startled, his trembling fingers activated the screen, and he saw a message from his granddaughter Nadya: “Are you home?” He immediately typed “yes.”
Just a second later, the doorbell rang. From the next room came Vadim’s grumbling. He went to the door, opened it, and stared at the girl. He was barely coherent from his hangover.
“Are you Vadim?” the unexpected visitor asked.
“What do you want?” the man replied, trying to figure out who was before him.
The girl recognized him. Yes, it was Vadim—her cousin, whom she rarely saw—and yet it was him.
“What…” he began to ask “what do you want,” but before he could finish, the girl struck him hard on the nose. Likely, the alcohol had dulled his pain. Ignoring the man, who fell and started cursing, the girl went into the hall. Quickly assessing the situation, she opened the adjacent door and entered the bedroom where Yana lay. Without saying a word, Nadya grabbed Yana by the hair and yanked her forcefully. At the same moment, the daughter-in-law shrieked in pain like a siren, but the unexpected guest wasn’t about to stop. She pulled Yana’s hair toward herself; Yana jumped off the bed and clutched at Nadya’s arm with her nails. In the same second, Yana received another blow to the nose, and she wailed in pain again.
There was no time to stop—Nadya knew that well. She had learned a similar lesson back in school when she fought with boys who spat chewing gum. The lesson hadn’t been in vain, and now Nadya dragged the daughter-in-law along. The latter cursed, screamed, squealed, and shrieked. My goodness, what a scene! It seemed her screams filled the entire house.
Finally, Vadim came to his senses; he rushed into the hall and attacked Nadya. But she was faster; she grabbed a cutting board—with remnants of pizza still on it—and with all her might kicked it into her cousin’s nose. Not expecting such a turn, the man slammed into the wall, hit it, and fell to the floor. Taking advantage of the commotion, Yana darted back to her room, but Nadya’s tenacious fingers grabbed her hair again and pulled her back. The daughter-in-law wailed; she was in nothing but her underwear, yet Nadya didn’t care. She dragged her, opened the front door, and kicked her down the stairs.
A second later, Vadim reappeared. He grabbed the girl by the hair, but it was no use—she quickly turned her head and bit his hand. The man howled in pain again, then received another blow to the nose, and later to his groin. Oh yes, Nadya knew that move—one must do everything in sequence and never stop. Now she grabbed him by the hair and, with all her strength, pulled him. As Vadim began to fall, she steered his body toward the door. A second later, he was thrown out onto the landing, and the door slammed shut.
Nadya was furious; she rarely got this angry. She entered the hall and, like a little girl, burst into tears. The old man, Vladimir Pavlovich, came out of his room, smiling and quietly clapping, while Nadya stood there crying. She herself hadn’t expected such fury, hadn’t thought she was capable of it—but she had.
There was a knock on the door. “Give me the phone!” her cousin shouted at her.
Nadya turned her head and saw the phone on the table. The old man approached and handed her a second phone—a pink one, which likely belonged to the daughter-in-law.
The girl took the phones and moved toward the door. Immediately, Vadim lunged at her again, but he received another blow to the nose. My goodness, what a sight—his whole face was covered in blood. She grabbed the phone and hurled it downward.
“What are you doing?!” Vadim roared and chased after it.
The second phone, hitting the ceiling, crashed onto the concrete floor and immediately shattered. Seeing this, Yana shrieked.
Vadim grew angry and lunged at Nadya, but she grabbed an empty bottle and, with all her might, struck the wall with its broken neck pointed at her brother. He abruptly halted.
Sniffing, he backed away. In that moment, Nadya was ready to use even more force. How she now hated Vadim—her brother, with whom she had played in childhood! The girl closed the door.
“Give me back the laptop!” the man shouted.
The door was locked with a latch; it couldn’t be opened from the outside. The girl entered the room, looked around—she didn’t see the laptop except in the bedroom. Grabbing it, she still marched toward the door, flung it open, and, without warning Vadim, tossed him upward. A couple of seconds later, the laptop hit the concrete.
“You idiot!” Yana screamed.
The girl looked terrible—a half-naked shrew with a bloodied face. Taking a jacket that hung in the corridor, Nadya threw it aside.
At that moment, the neighboring door opened. Aunt Tamara—whom Nadya knew well and used to spend time with—appeared.
“What’s going on here?” she demanded indignantly, addressing everyone. Seeing Vadim’s bloodied face, she gasped.
“You knew they wouldn’t let grandpa out, but you kept quiet, not even calling the local policeman!”
The neighbor realized that it wasn’t worth arguing with the furious woman in front of her and, feeling guilty, quickly closed the door.
Eventually, Vadim recovered completely; the remnants of alcohol had evaporated.
“Who are you?” he asked, wiping his eyes, staring at Nadya.
“You don’t live here anymore,” the girl replied, starting to throw out onto the landing the things she found in the corridor.
“This is my home!” Vadim roared.
“No,” Nadya snapped harshly, “this is my home.” And with that, the girl shut the doors.
Returning to the hall, Nadya quietly began to cry again, like a child so that no one would hear her, lowering her head and covering her face with her hands.
Vladimir Pavlovich sat in his favorite armchair, which he had bought fifteen years ago. He couldn’t even remember the last time he sat in it. He got up, looked at his granddaughter, and then went back to his room. About twenty minutes later, he came out. Nadya had calmed down, washed her face, and took out garbage bags to clean up the mess in the hall.
Vladimir Pavlovich put on his suit, tied his tie, and, approaching the mirror, adjusted it.
“Let’s go,” he said to his granddaughter. “Let’s go, we’ve got things to do.”
He stepped into the corridor, tried to find his shoes again—though they were gone, luckily he found his grandson’s sneakers. Struggling to put them on, he rummaged through the nightstand and found the keys to the apartment.
“Let’s go,” he repeated to the granddaughter. “Take your passport.”
The girl looked in her bag and nodded silently.
The old man opened the door and looked out onto the landing. Vadim and Yana were already gone.
“How are you, grandpa?” she asked Vladimir Pavlovich.
But he just waved his hand, and Nadya realized that things were terribly wrong.
Outside, the grandson and his wife were nowhere in sight—it seemed they had run off to complain to their mother.
“Let’s go,” Vladimir Pavlovich hurried.
Nadya followed the old man; she didn’t know why or where they were going. Her arm ached—she had never fought so hard—but she had to. Passing a café, she suggested they grab a bite.
“Later I need to give you a weapon,” the old man said thoughtfully.
“What kind of weapon?” Nadya asked, curious.
“Soon Galina will come running, your aunt, and against her there’s only one weapon—and I’ll give it to you. Come on.”
Finally, they arrived at the notary’s office.
“Grandpa, why are we here?” the girl stopped.
The old man beckoned her to the door, but she just stood there.
“What are we doing here?”
Vladimir Pavlovich turned to his granddaughter.
“Do you mind,” he said, “if I write a deed in your name?”
“What deed? I don’t understand,” Nadya asked.
“For the apartment,” the old man added.
She knew that this apartment had never allowed Aunt Galya to live in peace.
“It just won’t let you be at peace,” Vladimir Pavlovich meant not his daughter but the apartment. “It’s the only way to keep everyone in line—they’ll soon start biting each other’s throats.” This time he meant his daughter, the grandson, the daughter-in-law, and everyone else—mother-in-law, sister-in-law, son-in-law.
Nadya was silent. She understood that if grandpa transferred the apartment to her, he would become an enemy of Aunt Galya.
“They’ll put me in a nursing home or, worse, declare me incompetent. As long as I’m still of sound mind, we must sort this out.”
The girl approached the old man and embraced him. She realized that soon Aunt Galya and her husband would appear, and this morning’s events would seem like nothing. Nodding, Nadya agreed, and within an hour she left the notary’s office, holding the deed for the apartment. Now she truly held a weapon in her hands.
On the way back, they stopped by a café to grab a bite. Vladimir Pavlovich was worried—and Nadya could see it—so after sitting for a while, they returned to the house.
An hour later, there was a knock on the door.
“Well, it’s started,” Nadya thought and nodded toward the room, suggesting that grandpa stay there. The blood in the girl’s veins began to boil. Angrily, she approached the door and, opening it, glared at Aunt Galya.
“You miserable wretch!” the woman screamed, grabbing her niece and pulling her toward the exit.
But Nadya wasn’t going to show any mercy. She struck her aunt first in the stomach, then in the face. Aunt Galya released her niece and, gasping, backed away. Nadya tried to shut the door but didn’t manage. With her whole body, Aunt Galya, like a battering ram, burst into the corridor. Vadim immediately followed her, but Nadya, grabbing a shard of a broken bottle neck that still lay on the nightstand, aimed it at her cousin.
“One more step into my apartment, and I’ll cut you!” she threatened.
Vadim didn’t joke—he immediately stepped back onto the landing. Hearing these words, Aunt Galya turned to her niece.
“What are you staring at?” Aunt Galya shouted.
“What did you say?” she demanded.
“My apartment,” Nadya repeated.
“You old bastard!” Aunt Galya screamed and dashed toward the bedroom door where Vladimir Pavlovich was hiding.
In two quick strides, Nadya caught up with her aunt, grabbed her by the collar, and yanked her toward herself. The massive body, weighing nearly one hundred and fifty-five kilos, slowed its pace, then slowly, like in a movie, flew backward. A second later, Aunt Galya landed smoothly on her backside.
“You little brat!” Aunt Galya shrieked.
Nadya pulled out a bottle of perfume and aimed it at her aunt’s face.
“A pepper spray,” she lied.
Aunt Galya was frightened. Cursing and struggling to stand on her knees while leaning against the wall, she finally got up.
“Get out of my apartment!” Nadya shouted.
Aunt Galya did not want to tempt fate. Perhaps she already knew what a pepper spray was, so she quickly stepped onto the landing. Nadya immediately closed and latched the door.
An hour later, someone rang the doorbell. This time it was someone different—the ring was soft, almost calm. The girl answered and opened the door. Standing before her was a policeman, and behind him—Aunt Galya, Vadim, his wife Yana, the mother-in-law, the sister-in-law, and the son-in-law.
“Damn,” the girl murmured.
“May I come in?” the policeman asked.
“You—yes; they—no,” Nadya replied. “I don’t allow them into my apartment.”
“Yours?” the policeman queried.
“Yes, mine.”
In the corridor, Vladimir Pavlovich appeared. Respecting the law, he immediately handed his passport to the policeman. The policeman turned to Aunt Galya, who had been about to come in, and said calmly, “Wait here.” That seemed to sober her up, and she stopped.
Taking the old man’s passport and after examining it, he returned it. Nadya also handed hers over. After flipping through it, he asked, “You said this apartment is yours?”
“Yes,” the girl answered and produced from her bag a copy of the deed for the apartment.
After reviewing it, he smiled. “You’re quick…” he said.
Nadya didn’t understand what he meant by that. She took a piece of paper and slipped it back into her bag.
“Is the matter settled?” Vladimir Pavlovich asked the policeman.
He glanced at a pile of garbage bags.
“What’s this?” the policeman inquired.
“This is what that guy left behind,” Nadya nodded toward Vadim.
The policeman opened one bag and, seeing a huge number of empty cans, closed it. The second bag held the same, except for some rags and cotton balls.
“Understood,” the policeman said, turning to Aunt Galya and adding, “The owner of the apartment is her,” he nodded toward Nadya. “I mean, Nadya.”
“You old senile fool!” Aunt Galya screamed. She directed these words at her father, who chuckled and, rubbing his hands contentedly, returned to the hall.
“Now I need to clean up the apartment,” Nadya told the policeman, who then left the landing.
Vadim asked his mother something, and her face flushed with anger. She glared coldly at her niece, saying something, but Nadya paid her no mind. Carefully, she closed the door and latched it.
Half an hour later, the girl’s phone rang. She answered, “Yes, mom.”
“What’s going on with you?” Vera Vladimirovna asked with concern.
“Everything’s settled, mom, don’t worry.”
“Aunt Galya is tearing things apart.”
“Of course,” her daughter replied. “You know, Vadim wouldn’t even let grandpa outside. And Aunt Galya was stuffing him with medications like he was some kind of cockroach.”
“Oh,” Vera Vladimirovna responded.
“Mom,” Nadya realized that she had now set her two aunts against each other. “Mom,” she carefully chose her words, “grandpa transferred the apartment to me.”
“Phew,” Vera Vladimirovna sighed.
It appeared that she knew exactly what her sister wanted to achieve.
“Don’t leave him for now, okay? I’ll buy tickets and fly over.”
“Okay,” the daughter replied.
“And think—maybe you should transfer and live with grandpa?”
“Yeah, maybe,” the girl responded.
“Alright then, hang in there. I’ll call you as soon as I buy the tickets.”
The call ended.
All day, Nadya tidied up the house. In the old apartment with high ceilings and massive wooden frames, there was a lot of work to do. She vacuumed, collected garbage, took it outside, mopped the floors, and cleaned the windows. After gathering the bed linen, she sent everything to be washed. There was even too much work.
Once again, while taking out a bag of garbage, she met her neighbor.
“Oh, Nadya, what a racket you made,” the elderly woman said, shaking her head. “The local cop came by my place. How is he?” Nadya asked, realizing that the neighbor was referring to Vladimir Pavlovich.
“Now he’s fine—he’s taking his bath.”
They stood for a few minutes, talking about everyday matters. Afterwards, Nadya went to the nearest café, bought two whole pizzas and some soda.
“Grandpa, how are you?” she asked Vladimir Pavlovich, who was standing in front of the mirror, combing his hair.
“Good!” he said, raising a big thumb.
“Let’s go have dinner,” she said as she opened the pizza box, placed two glasses on the table, and poured the soda.
The old man went to his room, and when he returned, he put a photograph of his wife on the table.
“Your grandma,” he said, gently stroking the photo with his aged fingers.
Nadya barely remembered her grandmother—she had always worked, and then unexpectedly passed away.
“Tell me about her,” Nadya requested, placing the pizza on a plate and taking a glass of soda.
Vladimir Pavlovich smiled, took the photograph, held it close to his face, and kissed it.
“Oh, that was long ago,” he began his long story.
Nadya sat at the old round table, covered with a paper tablecloth, listening as her grandfather reminisced about his youth, talking and talking, lost in memories.
